Despite Ryan's efforts to alert the high elves, there was still no movement from the War Council. Another day passed, and the council continued to meet, yet Lothern remained sunny and serene as always.
Earlier, a message arrived from Little Thorgrim Ironhammer, reporting that the ironclads had been repaired and were ready for battle. They were restocked with most essential supplies, including dwarven bullets and helicopter fuel, though they remained short on shells for the triple-mounted naval guns—a resource not easily produced locally. The ironclads had already used up nearly half their ammunition in the previous sea battle, so what was left would need to be carefully rationed.
With nothing left to do but wait, Ryan decided to check on the ironclads and inspect his Old Guard's training progress. Though outwardly he expressed satisfaction, he held some reservations. The next night, he and Queen Sulia prepared to make a surprise inspection of the Old Guard's camp.
Night fell, and as the mild sea breeze drifted through the garden, Ryan and Sulia began their walk. Sulia wore a stunning dark blue Asurian dress adorned with sparkling crystals, paired with soft gray velvet tights. Radiantly beautiful, she clung to Ryan's arm, her face filled with excitement. "Darling, any guesses on when that 'sticker' will show up?"
"I imagine soon—oh?" Ryan's gaze was drawn to the villa entrance, where he noticed a high elf he hadn't seen before.
The elf bore a resemblance to Lord Charles but looked paler, with a weary expression. He had shoulder-length, wavy gray hair parted in the middle, revealing a high forehead. Oddly, he leaned on a cane, and his outfit, while neat, had a slightly threadbare quality. Upon seeing Ryan and Sulia, he greeted them with hurried respect. "Good evening, Your Majesties. I am tonight's attendant."
"And you are…?" Ryan inquired, taken aback by the unexpected change in escorts. "Where's Arsené? It feels strange without him lurking around."
"My name is Delareon Morris Bannister," the elf answered with a self-deprecating smile. "I'm the cousin of Lord Charles…well, if he acknowledges that."
" 'If he acknowledges it'?" Ryan asked with curiosity. "Care to share your story?"
"I'm a mere byproduct of a celebration, born about 120 years ago at a fertility festival. I don't know who my father is," Delareon admitted frankly. "I grew up on an estate in Chrace, known as a land of uncouth folk. I was left there to be raised by my mother and suffered a leg injury in a fall from a high chair. Once grown, she sent me here to Lothern to seek aid from family—if you can call it that."
Ryan found himself intrigued. "Then why send you to me?"
"Oh, Mr. Arsené had some business to attend to," Delareon replied, managing an embarrassed chuckle. "Call me Delareon, please. At just 120 years, I'm quite young by Asur standards, and compared to you, Sire, I'm practically a child." Unlike the usual elven nobles, Delareon had an air of humility and amiability that both Ryan and Sulia found refreshing after days of veiled condescension.
So Delareon assumed the role of their new escort, explaining that Arsené was absent due to inventorying his family's trading accounts. Apparently, his lineage, once famed for producing soldiers for the Lothern Sea Guard, had shifted focus toward overseas trade, leaving military service mostly behind.
"Apologies for my pace, Your Majesty. I'll try not to hold you back," Delareon said with some embarrassment as he hobbled along.
"It's fine," Ryan reassured him. Delareon's demeanor had done wonders to lighten the mood. After all the snide comments and condescension they'd faced, Delareon's grounded attitude made them both feel they could finally breathe easily.
The elf continued, explaining that he was often dismissed as nothing more than a "servant with a tray," a reflection of the rigid Asurian social structure in which birthright determined one's role—whether to serve or be served. He was relegated to the former. "My highest hope is to serve an elf prince as a waiter someday," he added wryly.
Ryan felt a twinge of sympathy for the high elf's situation. Despite their reputation for being paragons of freedom and democracy, the Asur held their own deeply ingrained social hierarchy. Inner kingdoms looked down on outer kingdoms, highborn bloodlines scorned commoners, urbanites scoffed at rural folk, and even magic-wielders held disdain for the uninitiated—a multi-tiered chain of contempt. Delareon, being a rural, outer-kingdom native from Chrace, ranked low on that chain.
As they made their way to the Old Guard's encampment in the foreign quarter, Ryan asked Delareon about the state of Chrace.
"It's grim, Majesty," Delareon replied, steadying himself with his cane. "Chrace is vast and forested but isolated, and people consider it a land of 'country bumpkins.' Worse, it's a primary target for Druchii invasions. The constant skirmishes have devastated the population. Many ancient towns and estates have been abandoned, and most castles stand unguarded."
"How did it decline so severely?" Sulia asked, frowning.
"Phoenix King's orders, Majesty. The elite White Lions have been called to protect him in Lothern," Delareon answered somberly. "And those with the means to leave have already done so. My mother was no different. Unimpressed by a crippled son, she sent me to Lothern."
"Why not encourage families to raise more children if the population is dwindling?" Sulia asked, perplexed by the Asur's exceptionally low birthrate.
"My mother would rather tend to her garden and sing," Delareon shrugged. "Raising children is burdensome. Here, it's far easier to pass the centuries on leisure than to rear children. Many view offspring as an onerous duty, especially in Asurian society, where cultivating a single 'good' offspring demands high investment."
The peaceful, welfare-laden society of the Asur, Ryan thought, understanding for the first time how different the Asurian mindset was from that of the Druchii. For the Druchii, more citizens meant more soldiers, while for the Asur, more people just meant more mouths to feed.
Reflecting on Delareon's comments, Ryan recalled Saint Gilles' words: Machinations have limits, and the strength of the populace has limits as well. The Asur's elaborate scheming does nothing to produce soldiers or resources. No amount of cleverness can conjure men and supplies from thin air.
Ryan shook his head, letting the matter drop.
After half an hour, they arrived at the Old Guard encampment, and Ryan pulled out a handful of coins, handing them to Delareon. "Do me a favor. Tell the guards you're here for a tour, and if they refuse, offer this as 'encouragement.'"
"Of course!" Delareon accepted the coins and hobbled to the guard post.
While waiting, Ryan observed the lively streets. The area was bustling, well-lit with soldiers and officers from the Old Guard and the Grey Guard out purchasing supplies or enjoying a drink.
Ryan's attention was drawn to two Old Guard members stumbling from an alleyway, visibly inebriated and looking satisfied. Behind them, two women, heavily made up and garishly dressed, waved them off. The meaning was clear.
"Those men!" Ryan frowned and looked at Sulia. "How can they…?"
"Dear, not everyone has a wife and maidservant with them on extended campaigns," Sulia teased, tapping his brow with her finger. "It's likely they're on leave. You could ask, but if they're on scheduled leave, I see no harm in it."
Ryan nodded, embarrassed. "You're right. I'll ask them."
He strode forward and stopped the soldiers, who looked irritated to be interrupted—until they saw him and immediately sobered.
"Majesty!" they stammered, falling to their knees.
"Your regiment?" Ryan demanded.
"The Pike Regiment, Sire," one of them answered, his head bowed.
"What are you doing out here?" Ryan continued.
"Today's our leave day," replied the taller man, gulping nervously. "We were just, um…enjoying a drink and…other pursuits."
Upon hearing they were on official leave, Ryan's expression softened, and he nodded. "Very well, carry on."
"Yes, Majesty!" The two men stood, faces red from embarrassment.
"Where's your captain?" Ryan asked offhandedly.
"Captain Raymond's inside, reading military texts," the tall one explained. "He's been devouring translated Asur strategy books."
Ryan smiled, pleased. The Old Guard was indeed developing a strong sense of pride and responsibility. He turned back to the villa just as Delareon hobbled over, breathless. "They… won't let me… in, Majesty," he panted, supporting himself on his cane. "They said… even the Phoenix Court… couldn't authorize it…"
"Very well, we'll go in," Ryan said, motioning for everyone to follow him. He approached the encampment entrance, where five finely crafted Nuln rifles immediately aimed his way.
"Who goes there—Majesty!" one of the guards stammered, recognizing him.
"Are Bertrand and
Davout inside?" Ryan asked, impressed by their diligence.
"Yes, Sire! They're studying a map."
As Ryan and his entourage prepared to enter, a sudden, resonant tolling rang out from the direction of Lothern.
Dong…dong…dong…dong…
Ryan and Sulia exchanged glances as Delareon's face went pale. He gripped his cane tightly. "Your Majesties, that bell…"
"What does it mean?" Sulia asked urgently.
"It's the muster bell!" Delareon cried, banging his cane against the ground. "It signals an immediate army assembly. War is upon us!"
Sulia's eyes widened. "But the War Council never informed us of their strategy…oh!"
"Damn it!" Ryan cursed, clenching his fist. "I've been pressing and pressing, and all they've done is delay. Now look where it's gotten us."
"Summon all troops!" he bellowed to the guards. "We're moving to combat readiness, now!"
"Yes, Sire!"
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